


All of My Existence.

by fearless_seas



Series: Halemadge || Pythias & Damon [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American History RPF
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Prompt: “Don’t say that…not you.”





	All of My Existence.

**September 8th, 1776**

 

          Nathan Hale shivered, it was a deep, rumbling tremble that rattled the hollow bones in his chest like the flapping wings of a bird. He twisted onto his side from his back, every joint flaring up as he did so and the fever quivering across his skin felt like broken glass. In and out his eyes fluttered and the stitching of his tent appeared to be miles and miles away. He could not smell anything but the decay and rot. Asher Wright, not noticing that he had awoke from a long, aching slumber, passed by his cot with his coat draped over one arm absentmindedly. Nathan’s eyes rolled away, the corners of his vision darkening but he blinked it away. A tongue like sand lapped in his dry mouth and a knot of string was working its way down his throat. Or, more it felt as if it were being shoved into the tight space by an invisible force. 

          Asher’s boots trod over soil, the ginger grass parting at his feet when he ducked to draw the tent flap open. Not that he was ever taller than 5′6, still, the low parting at the corners caused anyone to shield their head. At first, when light spilled into through the crack and splashed across his homespun blanket like paint across a fresh canvass, he squinted his lids shut and allowed them to fall to a chair at his left where his uniform was drapped over the back ever-so neatly. His friend was always peculiarly neat towards everything. He should send him back to Coventry for two weeks. Maybe, Nathan would of managed a smile, but his cracked lips would not oblige and instead he pursed them shut. The sunlight quieted and deep reticence followed, a better silence than he had heard in months in the busy camp. 

 _Once Asher gets back_ , he thought, _I will ask for water_. His thirst was becoming unbearable and he almost contemplated going back to sleep and easing his sufferings. It began with a chill and then a cough that wracked him through like a plague, infecting his lungs like charred wood. A hand drifted over the side of the bed and he shut his eyes, _I have given up for now_. An image of revenge shifted in his skull; this time, he did force a feeble grin. A moment later light burst over his eyelids as they shot open and his spine coiled in on itself like a snake. He was prepared to sit up, scold Asher as if he were a child and beg for a pitcher of water; but he stopped, because it wasn’t Asher who had stepped in. As soon as the bright shine crinkled and died away, a cocky simper pried at his dying lips. 

          “Pythias,” Benjamin Tallmadge didn’t speak at first, whenever he did it was always with great effort and a careful craft of quick, artful syllables. Yet, to him, everything they ever said was art in his heart, something to string up in the stars or remember at the corners of his memorabilia when darkness settles in. They wore a serious expression, to one who did not know him well you might say that he seemed intimidating. There was a softness tugging at the corners of his eyes, the cinnamon was more obscure, shadowed and hidden underneath his thick lashes. Even his voice was delicate, slow and precise as if he was afraid of saying something too harsh and cracking the fragile, glass silence. He poised there at the end like a lost object trying to find its place on a busy mantlepiece. 

          Nathan’s tongue did push forward against his teeth to speak, to urge him forward but all he did was cough, the crackling of his breaking lungs making Ben wince and sharply inhale in concern. If he could, he would of gathered him in his arms just then and rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. He doesn’t know exactly when he last saw him, maybe it was Thursday–the day before he collapsed but he felt their presence when he was weaving in and out of consciousness. He’d never owned a strong constitution. His lungs, though they never held him back in physicality, were premature in structure and wavered like silk under the moonlight. Always quick to act, Ben dusted off his dirty hands and glided towards the table. The glass pitcher was poured into a mug and cradled between his palms like a bible. Although their back was turned, Nathan knew his eyes and thoughts were still upon him–neither could escape the other, even in the cavern of their brain. 

          Then Ben approached, the water sloshing in the cup before he lowered and slipped a hand underneath Nathan’s neck and held his head up off of the pillow in his arms. A flood of ecstasy melted through him, not only as the liquid touched his dry lips, but that familiar, moving touch after so long. They both were not stranger to the curvature of each other’s hips or the topography of their veins like a carefully drawn out map from fingertips alone. He had three glasses back and forth before Nathan allowed his head to drift back to the pillow. Ben rubbed his knuckles together, kneeling beside him and gathering his hands in his own. 

          “You’re burning,” he muttered softly, twisting and relacing their fingers together in intimacy. He hid the worry in his vocals well, but that was Ben, so well hidden like a garden of secrets awaiting another’s prying eye. Nathan felt perhaps he was the only one on Earth who knew the shades of his flowers or their scent on the breeze. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”, he questioned, raising a thick brow high on forehead. Nathan could tell that was not what he wanted, but Ben was selfless and Ben could knew he could wait. 

          The smile remained untouched by his comments and his mind (or mood) still unaffected. He never answered his question. Nathan did force himself to make a sound. “Come closer, Damon,” it sounded alien. Despite this demand, Ben was still closer than any person had ever been to him; he was wrapped around the flesh of his vein as if he were the very fabric holding together his life. Ben drove himself closer on his knees, putting their hands to the side and laying his cheek onto his chest. Both eyes were shut as half of his face lay buried in the threadbare blanket. _It was too hot_ , he thought. Nathan should of kicked it off but seeing Ben’s visage of comfort, an expression of sensitivity and relief that settled deeply in his chest, he did not do this even though it was in his better interest. 

          Nathan’s free hand snaked across and landed in Ben’s hickory curls, threading and coiling his fingers down the back of his neck. He looked almost like a child, resting after a long day of exertions. But he was a man, collapsing with blood caked beneath his nails and premature wrinkles from the horrors he’d seen splintering underneath revealing, haunted eyes. Ben handled it better than he did–publicly. They stole his way across terrains and sifted through bodies of his comrades with his lips sewn tightly over his pale, shaking skin. It was out of the other’s view, in a tent where they both believed perhaps God could not see them or bare witness to their sins that Ben allowed a few tears to dot his cheeks and Nathan to console his fears. But in all, they were stronger than anybody he’d ever seen and would ever see. Nathan couldn’t remember the last time he saw him carefree as in their schooldays at Yale. Back then, the open sea appeared to be insurmountable and he was still a child with dreams clouding all the normalcy from existence. But Benjamin had become that existence, and it would never normalcy to them.

          “And risk missing your face?”, his lungs eased more gently on the articles. “Not in hell would I do that.” With their eyes shut, Ben did smile. It was thoughtful, meaningful and intentioned. His lover’s face rose and fell on his stomach when Nathan breathed where they were rested. If he wasn’t so weak he could of traveled down the roads of his soul that afternoon until his shoes were worn through. For now, laying there with the sun drawing shadows like captured ghosts across the ceiling, their curled fingers were enough and he wouldn’t change a thing. “I wouldn’t worry, Damon,” he managed and he knew he caught Ben’s attention because they parted their eyes slightly and met his lingering gaze. The side of his neck where the mole lay pulsated then like a warning. “I am not to leave you just yet.”

          Ben shot up a head, faster than Nathan had seen his aged bones dart in a long while. Their chin began to tremble, and the stiff lace of their fingers hardened. He felt his own knuckles pale and revolve to a ivory tone. Their mouth opened, then closed and didn’t move at all for a long lapse of time.  **“Don’t say that…”** , a sharp inhale followed,  **“…not you.”**

          Nathan didn’t speak at all after that. He only reached out a porcelain arm and cradled Ben closer to his side. He felt their uneven breaths, he experienced the stab of their ribs and the pain burning in their abdomen. He was sensing every corner and cove of their soul, discovering and delving into every one of their fears. Their bodies molded into the shape of each other’s hips. Nathan’s hooked a chin over his head and the tufts of Ben’s hair tickled his throat, sending a wave of subtle excitement into the roots of his bones. His arms pulled him higher, wrapping around his form and tugging him closer. 

          But talkative as he was, his vocal chords hummed like music and crawled out of his throat. “Not ever,” he breathed deeply, shutting his eyes. For a moment he didn’t believe Ben had heard him. Then they let out a chuckle, light and rare–as close to a laugh as his lover had been in too long. _What has this war done to you, my love?_  They’ll never allow anyone else to know their pain, selfless in giving others reassurance to fight another day. There was a pained bruise in Ben’s laugh, an ache of experience that did not allow it to go any farther then that light chuckle. Nathan still held him in his arms until they both were asleep.  _I will tie a noose of all these loose, fragile moments if we ever part; the pain of your absence already would of taken all of my existence._

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any historical notes let me know! My Tumblr is @sonofhistory and this was requested by anonymous.
> 
> HISTORICAL NOTES:  
> \- A few days before his mission, Nathan Hale got seriously ill.  
> \- Asher Wright was Nathan's childhood friend who served as his body servant from December, 1775 - Nathan's death in September, 1776.


End file.
